Nothing At All
by whimsycality
Summary: Liz POV, very dark oneshot set sometime in the future post grad. Fair warning it involves, depression, sex, death. This is NOT a happy fic.


**Title:** Nothing At All  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong> I own absolutely nothing, all characters and original Roswell settings belong to very lucky people. I also do not own the words to Macbeth's Soliloquy, but I think you all knew that ;-)**  
>PairingsCouples/Category:** Liz/Rath, One Shot  
><strong>Rating:<strong> Adult  
><strong>Summary: <strong>This is a very dark fic set sometime in the future post grad. Fair warning it involves, depression, sex, death. This is NOT a happy fic.

**A/N: **Very different from my usual fare so please be gentle with the feedback.

* * *

><p><em>Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow<br>Creeps in this petty pace from day to day  
>To the last syllable of recorded time;<em>

Liz stared dully out the window of the coffee shop, the masses of people milling by not even pinging on her consciousness. It had been a long time since she'd enjoyed people watching, a long time since she'd enjoyed anything. It took too much energy to enjoy something, and energy wasn't something she had these days.

Living in an emotionless void was simpler, easier, empty. It was safer than letting anything touch her. Once upon a time she'd been strong, full of fire. Now she knew she was weaker than spun glass, and just as liable to shatter with a glance. Everything that mattered about her, who she was, what she wanted, had been sucked out. All that was left was a Liz shaped figurine, as hollow and meaningless as a doll.

A doll no one wanted to play with, not anymore.

_And all our yesterdays have lighted fools  
>The way to dusty death.<br>Out, out, brief candle!_

There had been those who wanted to pull her strings, push her this way and that, see what mysteries lay beneath her skirts. They had all taken pieces of her and left the rest by the wayside, tattered and used.

There had been the funny one who never asked anything serious, never pushed her where she didn't want to go. Until she took herself away and when he tried to reclaim his toy, he ventured to far into the darkness she was lost in and he changed. Now he saw things, said things, meant things. But he didn't want her anymore; he had different toys to play with.

The boy she'd followed into the darkness, willingly gave herself to for whatever games he wanted, he had played the longest. Up and down, all around the merry go round. The games they played were dark and deep, and more and more of her was carved away. It was all on the inside where no one could see. They still thought she was there, smiling at them. They didn't know that it was a shell of a person that walked and talked and danced when they pulled. They didn't see because it was a bloodless death, silent and slow.

There had been one other she remembered vaguely, one who made her smile with little games when she was spiraling down a slippery slope, until the other boy reeled her back in for another round of we all fall down.

Then just him until the last time they all fell down, never to get up again.

Since then there had been many boys, but she couldn't see any of them. Empty names and faces that blurred together, as pointless as she was when they touched and poked and prodded. Silly boys. Didn't they know she didn't do tricks anymore?

She was all played out.

_Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player,  
>That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,<br>And then is heard no more._

There was only one more boy whose face she remembered, whose name she might whisper if she let herself speak. The one she'd always wanted to play with, because she knew he would have cut her strings. But he never wanted her, always played with the other toys, when he wasn't a toy himself. Now it was too late, she wasn't fit to be used and he wasn't there to use her.

Sometimes, in the moments when she saw color instead of bleak grey, she wondered what would have happened if she had looked him in the eyes before the end. Would he have seen inside? Would he have seen through her and realized what had happened? That she had died long ago and needed a kiss to bring her back? Would he have known that it was only his kiss that could save her?

Would he have cared?

_It is a tale told by an idiot  
>Full of sound and fury,<br>Signifying nothing_

Something flickered, in and out, disturbing the static of her thoughts, and for a moment she thought she saw him. Stepping quickly she left the shop, ignoring the coffee spilling onto the floor and the red burn on her arm. She didn't feel things anymore, not unless she tried.

There, a spot of color. Was it him? Strange things shifted inside of her as long withered emotions struggled to revive. Something was wrong, the picture wouldn't focus and she knew that this wasn't the one she wanted, couldn't be the one she wanted, because his death had been bloody and fast, no shell left behind to walk and talk.

But she kept walking, feet moving faster as he slipped into a darkened doorway, all the way down the rabbit hole. Rough hands grabbed her and shoved her against a wall and eyes burned into hers, the heat causing her to crack like the brittle porcelain she had become.

Something that she used to call a smile, except not, spread across his face as it shifted between what she wanted and what was. The hands slid down her sides and under her skirt, just like all the little boys. Something tore and a scrap of cloth fluttered to the ground, a splash of color before everything was grey again.

He touched her with cold calloused fingers, pushing and pulling and she let him play. She blinked and his other hand was on his pants, unbuttoning and unzipping until he was free, thick and long and pressing against her.

He shoved her up the wall, a loose nail scraping against her back as something warm and wet trickled down her spine. Then he was inside, thrusting and grunting, fingers digging into her hips, teeth latched onto her bottom lip.

She closed her eyes and tried to make believe, but it didn't work, and the pain didn't cross the line to pleasure. Because the man fucking her against the wall wasn't Michael, wasn't the boy she'd always wanted and never had. He was a murderer, an evil soul trapped in a beautiful body that shouldn't exist, because no one should be allowed to wear that face but him.

And no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't convince her soul or her body that this was just another game, because it wasn't, and this time she was going to let him use her until there wasn't anything left.

It was time to die for real, awash with color, loud with noise.

This time she wouldn't be there when they tried to pull the strings.


End file.
